


We Need to Talk About David (And All of Them)

by notfreyja, Straight_Outta_Hobbiton



Series: Doubt The Stars [16]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-05 12:43:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11578314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notfreyja/pseuds/notfreyja, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Straight_Outta_Hobbiton/pseuds/Straight_Outta_Hobbiton
Summary: Somehow, everyone Jim knows is a parent. Well, not everyone, but most of them.And their kids? Their kids are fucking crazy. Smart, but crazy.





	1. Third Times The Charm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another collection of one-shots for your enjoyment. The first chapter here has been moved over from Love Actually merely for organizational purposes, but everything following is new material. Enjoy.

If Sam had a normal relationship with his brother, he would have shown up on his doorstep the moment he landed. Since he doesn’t have a normal relationship, he, Aurie, and Peter go see Sarek.

 

“He has grown more quickly than I anticipated,” Sarek remarks. Peter is two, nearly three now, and quieter than most Human children tend to be, focused completely on the blocks Aurie had the foresight to bring with her.

 

“Kids tend to do that,” she says, smiling slightly. “At least, that’s what my Mom says.”

 

Sarek thinks motherhood suits Aurie, and is pleased to recognize the signs of a second pregnancy. She probably doesn’t even realize it herself yet, of course— she’s likely only a few weeks along. After such tragedy, it is… heartwarming, to see life progressing in such a way. Or, that’s what Amanda would say, if she were here.

 

Sarek feels a constriction around his heart. He presses a hand to his side in an aborted attempt to soothe away the pain.

 

Sam appears to notice, though— thankfully— he says nothing.

 

Peter is not so polite.

 

Humans teach their young to hold hands. It’s something that makes perfect sense, for their species. As a result, however, they are quite careless with touch, their inexperience with other, non-tactile cultures leading them to do things that would be— among Vulcans, anyway— quite inappropriate.

 

Peter is very quick. Sarek didn’t see him move until little hands rested themselves over his own. Curiosity, uncertainty, and a childish mimicry of worry spark across his thoughts.

 

Too large, patented Kirk-blue eyes peer up at him.

 

“Ow?”

 

Sarek blinks.

 

“I am not injured,” he tells the boy. “It is a small discomfort.”

 

A question. Peter did not understand his words, and wishes for clarification. If he were a Vulcan child, it would be a simple matter to reach an understanding, but Sarek does not trust himself— not with his control so utterly destroyed, not with such a young mind at stake.

 

Instead, he turns his palm in a gesture familiar to a three year old. Peter’s eyes widen slightly as emotions not his own trickle into his consciousness.

 

“Oh,” he says, frowning. His response is a memory, surprisingly clear despite his lack of training, of losing his mother in the grocery store. The memory is strong, the fear and loss clear along their shared communication, tenuous as it is.

 

“Something like that,” Sarek agrees, drawing away. He looks to Aurie. “Your son is highly intelligent.”

 

“Of course he is,” Aurie says, smiling. “He’s mine.”

 

“Hey, I helped.” Sam says, and— humor. It’s the Human way of dealing with emotional trauma. It is strange, but Sarek has long since grown used to the unusual.

 

“I believe it will do your brother good to see you well,” Sarek says, returning to the original topic of conversation. “But I do not believe he will be in a state for visitors of a certain age.”

 

“Oh, Peter’s not coming with us,” Sam says flatly. “I don’t want his first impression of his uncle to be an unwashed, probably-drunk mess.”

 

“We were wondering if you might watch him while we visit,” Aurie says, head tilting questioningly.

 

Sarek looks down at Peter, who has yet to leave his side.

 

“That would be agreeable,” he says finally, watching as the boy runs his fingers across the embroidery edging his robes. “You may leave him with me.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


At seven, Uncle Sarek is Peter’s favorite uncle, not that he’ll ever tell Uncle Jim that. Uncle Jim sends Peter toys— which is awesome, don’t misunderstand, but… Uncle Sarek sends him projects. Like he’s a _scientist_ , like his Daddy. He wants to be a scientist like his Daddy. He likes flowers, all of them— even the ugly weed plants that Daddy calls plomeek. When he gets big, he’s going to have a whole greenhouse full of plomeek, because apparently Uncle Sarek likes them, and he likes his Uncle Sarek.

 

But yeah, Uncle Sarek gives him projects. He gets all year to do it (from one birthday to the next), and the more he does for his project, the bigger the next one.

 

Peter can speak Vulcan, now. He can also recite the Pillars of Surak, and do his times tables all the way up to six hundred and twelve.

 

Mommy likes that he talks to Uncle Sarek every other Sunday on the comms. She says Uncle Sarek gets lonely, sometimes, and that Peter helps. Peter doesn’t know how a man like Uncle Sarek can get lonely— he’s an ambassador, his whole job is about meeting new people and making new friends. His stories are always interesting— funny, sometimes, even if he doesn’t mean to be. Peter doesn’t know what a nudist is, but the way Uncle Sarek’s face twitches when he talks about the people of Gernania II is enough to make him pee, just a little.

 

His eighth birthday is coming up soon— in two weeks, in fact. It’s a good thing he’s nearly done last year’s project. He just needs Mommy to finish fixing his spelling before he can send all his research to Uncle Sarek and it’s good to go. He’s titled it The Effects of Sodium-Enriched Fertlizer on Braccha Growth, because the titles of research papers should always be clear as to the subject matter, according to Uncle Sarek. Peter hopes he’ll like it— Braccha plants are hard to come across since the destruction of Vulcan, and the seeds Uncle Sarek sent him were probably really hard to find.

 

Yeah, Uncle Sarek is his favorite. Sue him.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Uncle Jim doesn’t know what to do with Peter, once he’s safe aboard the _Enterprise_. Peter understands— his Dad and Uncle Jim have never been close, and Peter is a quiet mess of grief and taciturn acceptance. He hasn’t cried yet, he doesn’t know why. Maybe he can’t. Regardless, his Mom and Dad are dead and nobody knows what to do with a Kirk that isn’t crazy.

 

He, Uncle Jim, and Uncle Spock have an unspoken understanding that he will not be staying with them. For all that they are kind, good people, they’re ill-equipped to deal with kids long-term. They’ve got their family already, and for all that Peter knows he’d be welcome, he doesn’t think they have room for one more. Or rather, he doesn’t want to think they have room for one more. It feels like he’s intruding just by being on this ship. He doesn’t belong, and doesn’t really want to.

 

He’s a bit like his Dad, that way.

 

They managed to save the majority of his Dad’s research, which is a blessing. Mr. Sulu helps him tend to the experiments, his green thumb and quiet curiosity soothing in a way that Uncle Jim’s fumbling attempts at comfort aren’t. In particular, he’s interested in Bolo, Uncle Sarek’s most recent birthday project.

 

“I just can’t figure it,” Sulu explains one day as Peter spritzes Bolo. “It looks like a plomeek sprout, but the coloring…”

 

“A genetic hybrid,” Peter says. “I was trying to create a hardier subspecies. The spots are a side-effect.”

 

He loves Bolo. She’s his first real success, planted in a flowerpot his mother painted in blue and yellow pinstripes.

 

“What’s your definition of ‘hardier’?”

 

Peter shrugs.

 

“Bolo can survive a Terran winter,” he says. “So long as she’s planted firmly in the ground. And— so long as there’s space to grow— she’ll reproduce like crazy. I’m not sure about the taste, though. I don’t want to cut her up until I’m sure I can make more.”

 

Sulu huffs a laugh, shaking his head.

 

“You Kirks are always doing the impossible,” he says. “This is amazing, you know that?”

 

“Thanks, but we won’t know for sure until I have the space for further tests, there’s no knowing if my hypothesis is correct.” He doesn’t say his Dad had been trying to do it for years, that he never managed, that Peter hid the results from him until he could figure out a way to say _hey, Dad, I maybe hijacked your research_.

 

Welp, the plus side to this situation is that now, he never has to.

 

… He’s spent too much time around Uncle Jim. Time to start cutting dinner short.

  
  


*.*

  
  


A few days later, he meets Dr. McCoy on the observation deck, half-drunk and huddled in the only corner that doesn’t get a full view of the open window. Arching an eyebrow, he takes a seat across the table from his uncle’s best friend.

 

“Exposure therapy,”  McCoy explains before he can ask. “I got it in my head that… never mind, it doesn’t matter.”

 

Peter nods once.

 

“Okay,” he says simply. “I believe you.”

 

McCoy snorts.

 

“You sound like Jim,” he says. “Look a hell of a lot like him, too. But… you’re like Sam.”

 

Peter’s throat tightens.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

The doctor shrugs.

 

“You’re just… like Sam,” he repeats. “I used to talk to him a lot, you know, when Jim would go into crisis mode. Him and Gaila.”

 

“What was he like?” Peter knows what he was like. He just wants to hear it from someone who isn’t Uncle Jim.

 

McCoy thinks about his answer.

 

“Practical,” he decides. “I guess someone had to be, considering Jim and Winona. He was smart like they were, but he… believed in boundaries. He knew when to step back, when to keep quiet.”

 

“That’s why Dad didn’t really talk to Uncle Jim.”

 

“Of course that’s why. Jim’s a mess on his good days. He’d have torn Sam to pieces in a matter of hours if their relationship was anything close to normal, just because he could.” McCoy shifts. “That’s not to say they didn’t love each other— they did, in their weird, Kirkish way, but… they were different.”

 

Dr. McCoy has a very interesting view of Uncle Jim, and of Dad. He talks about relationships, about the ultimately sane decision his Dad made at the tender age of eleven to keep away from the hellspawn that was named James Tiberius Kirk. Peter appreciates his long, rambling explanations of their relationship, interspersed with defensive anecdotes about Jim’s behavior or a non sequitur about his daughter. Peter lets it lull him into a calm that he hasn’t really experienced since things started falling apart in Deneva. It’s nice.

 

After a while, it’s made clear that McCoy needs to return to his quarters. Peter walks him there, because the Doctor’s more than a little unsteady and apparently, it’s his daughter’s birthday.

 

“You’re a good kid, Pete,” McCoy says when they get to the door. “You’re a real good kid.”

 

He ruffles Peter’s hair then, hand heavy against his skull, and with a sigh, he disappears into his room.

 

Peter never mentions that night, not for the rest of the trip. Neither does McCoy.

 

That’s alright for both of them.

  
  


*.*

  
  


When they actually get to Vulcan (the new one, not the one that exploded when he was little), there’s not much to talk about. Jim and Spock beam down with him, talk to Uncle Sarek for a bit, then go back to the ship. Peter’s left alone with his uncle for the first time since he was four years old.

 

They stare at each other for a long moment. Then, Sarek’s mouth pinches in an approximation of a Vulcan sigh.

 

“Come,” he says. “I have noted that extended space travel often causes distress to a Human’s physiological systems. I have a light lunch prepared for us both.”

 

Peter nods, hands tightening around Bolo’s pot.

 

Sarek arches an eyebrow.

 

“That appears to be a plomeek,” he remarks in Vulcan. “Though its coloring is not consistent to the breed native to Vulcan.”

 

Peter hesitates, then holds it out.

 

“This is my birthday project,” he explains, Standard accent faint. “I finished Bolo before… the events on Deneva. I think it might survive here, grow here, even, but I need to run a few more tests before I am sure.”

 

Sarek looks momentarily dumbstruck, shaking it off with all the grace his Vulcan grace would allow.

 

“We will talk over our meal,” he says. “Is that acceptable?”

 

“... It is.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Live long and prosper, Uncle Jim. Uncle Spock.”

 

“Jesus Christ, Petey, what did my father-in-law do to you?” Jim says, eyes wide. “You look like a Vulcan— well, except for the hair. You haven’t got the hair. But the _expression_ , oh, God, Bones, are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

 

“I am, Jim. How are you, Peter?”

 

“Very well, Doctor McCoy.”

 

Bones huffs a disbelieving laugh.

 

“Okay, that’s weird,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m going to oversee medical resupply. Don’t do anything stupid, Jim. Spock, don’t let him do anything stupid.”

 

“Of course, Doctor.” Spock peers curiously at Peter. “It appears you have embraced Vulcan culture to the fullest you are able.”

 

Peter nods.

 

“It was a logical course of action,” he says. “I live among Vulcans, it is only fit that I accept the culture in as much as I am able.”

 

“Oh, fuck, he said it was logical. _Logical_ , Spock! _Logical._ ”

 

“I am aware, Jim.”

 

“I’ve got a Vulcan for a nephew. A _blond_ Vulcan for a nephew. This is weird.”

 

“Uncle Jim, I have read your mission reports. Considering what you have seen, this is nothing.”

 

“Yeah but—” Jim stops. “You’ve read my mission reports? How have you read my reports.”

 

Smugness colors Peter’s tone.

 

“I have friends in high places.”

 

Jim stares a moment, then curses.

 

“The Pike twins,” he mutters. “I should have known there’d be trouble once Number One spawned.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


“He appears to have adjusted admirably, Father.”

 

“He has,” Sarek agrees. “Of my three children, I believe he might be considered the most successful in the study of logic.”

 

Jim’s eyes go wide over Spock’s shoulder. Spock himself has stiffened, mouth half-open.

 

“Yeah, Ambassador, I guess third time’s the charm.” Bones grins and slaps Sarek on the shoulder as he passes, one arm full of what looks like plant samples.

 

Jim is not laughing. The sound that leaves him is more akin to a screech, high-pitched and grating. His face is red, his eyes are bulging, and his smile is so wide Spock can see the hinge of his jaw.

 

“Bones— fucking— burn!”

 

Sarek glances at Spock.

 

“Is your bondmate well?” he inquires.

 

“He is attempting to process the Doctor’s words,” Spock explains.

 

“Oh?”

 

“He cannot speak now, but he wishes for me to say…” Spock pauses, wincing just slightly. “He wishes to say… ‘sick burn, Bones’.”

 

“I do not understand,” Sarek says.

  
“And I, sadly, do.”


	2. The Kirk Solution

Carol knew Jim Kirk long before Khan. How could she forget Gaila Pike— adopted daughter of Captain Pike himself— and her Human brother, liquored up and stumbling over himself to charm her? He and his sister were visiting Captain Pike while the captain had been at a conference, Gaila to see her father, and Jim to escape the aftermath of a relationship gone sour through the heavy use of liquor, sex, and bad humor.

 

Somehow, through all that, she still ended up in bed with him. Go figure.

 

She figured out she was pregnant roughly five weeks after Jim had left. He was the only one she deemed smart enough to fuck during that whirlwind of a break, so there was no question as to who the father was. The real question was this: should she tell him?

 

At first, she doesn’t say anything because she doesn’t really know where he is. She knows _who_ he is— Jim Kirk, son of George Kirk, hero of the Kelvin Incident— but she doesn’t have a relationship, doesn’t have a reason to have his comm number saved.

 

So she holds off, giving birth to a healthy baby boy without a father in the picture.

 

When she does manage to locate him again, he’s on the Starfleet campus, except he’s got a husband, and they live together, and David, who’s almost three and already raising hell in his grandfather’s house, doesn’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve to be a sore point in an otherwise happy marriage.

 

So she holds off, marveling at the prodigy her son is quickly revealing himself to be and doing her best to nurture that while designing torpedoes and talking Terran history with a man named John Harrison in her favorite Starfleet library.

 

It’s chance that they meet again— or rather, that they need to meet again. Jim doesn’t remember her, that much is clear, but she remembers him, nineteen years old and hurting.

 

He’s hurting now, too, but not the same way. This hurt is an angry kind, one that focuses him like nothing she’s ever seen.

 

A lot of things happen, in those first few weeks she knows him, including the revelation that her father has committed treason and Jim’s death, but her father is dealt with and Jim gets better, so it’s alright in the end, and she gets to go home to David and his babysitter to explain why Grandpa isn’t coming home.

 

The decision to bring David to meet Jim is an easy way out, a solid way to allow Jim to come to the conclusion of his own apparent fatherhood without her ever having to say a word. Jim’s smart— he’ll figure it out, right?

 

Ding-dong, she was wrong.

 

Jim is oblivious to the fact that David is clearly his clone, and David’s not much better. She watches Jim sign David’s Starfleet character cards and talk about school and space and books, easy and friendly and really, really good, and while yeah, she’s kind of pissed at Jim’s clear idiocy, she also sees… well, she sees an opportunity. Because David? David just lost his grandfather, and David needs someone to talk to that isn’t his mother but is also somewhat of a grownup. Maybe Jim can take that place— no, scratch that, he immediately takes that place, because by the end of their visit her son and his father have swapped comm numbers and promises to call.

 

This can be good. If this works out, if they keep in contact, maybe it won’t be such a blow when she finally gets around to telling Jim proper (since he apparently needs it in writing) that David is his kid. Maybe David won’t be so hateful when he finds out the guy he’s vocally decided to be just like when he grows up is actually his father. Maybe this won’t turn into the total clusterfuck that Carol knows, deep down inside, that it will probably end up being.

 

Jim offers her a place on the Enterprise, and she takes it. Why? Because her life is falling apart. She enrolls David into a Starfleet boarding school and leaves the planet, because her son needs stability, and a starship with James Tiberius Kirk at the helm will have none of that.

 

She never does get around to telling him.

  


*.*

  


“If his behavior does not improve, we will have no choice but to relocate him.”

 

Carol sighs.

 

“Understood. I’ll see what I can do.”

 

The headmistress— a pinched looking woman who’d once been a colleague of her father’s— nods sharply.

 

“I hold you and your family name in the highest esteem, Carol,” the headmistress says. “But David will soon be beyond our control if he continues as he is.”

 

“Yes, Headmistress Clemens. I’m on it. Marcus out.”

 

The vidcall switches off, and only then does Carol allow herself to slump in her seat.

 

To be honest, she knew this day was coming. Jim— if his stories are to be believed— was a little monster until he and Spock bonded. In fact, he still is. David is a carbon copy of his father, right down to those damned blue eyes. Why not have the personality, too?

 

Well. This is out of her hands. This is officially out of her hands. She’s not equipped to handle the Kirk gene in the least, and neither are the teachers she’s saddled her son with.

 

She needs to talk to Jim, and by proxy, Spock. Between the two of them, Dr. McCoy’s gonna know by the end of the shift, too.

 

She goes to him first, because he, at least, isn’t involved. Not directly. Not unless certain rumors are true.

 

Carol hopes the rumors aren’t true.

  


*.*

  


“I fucking knew it. I knew there was no way Jim coulda got through all that fucking around without _somebody_ getting pregnant. There was no goddamn way.” Doctor McCoy looks like a cross between gleeful and infuriated— essentially his natural state, when it comes to Jim. “When was this?”

 

“David is fifteen.”

 

“David…” Leonard trails off. “Right, David. David… Kirk?”

 

“Marcus.” Carol looks down. “I didn’t think he’d ever get to know his father, so I thought it would save him… pain.”

 

“Fair enough.” He thumbs at the base of his pinky absently for a moment, brow furrowing. “So… why now? Why not before? I mean, Jim’s met the kid. They swap messages all the time.”

 

Carol sighs.

 

“David is currently enrolled in the Archer School,” she says. “Has been, since I took my position on the _Enterprise_. He’s always been… a lot to handle, but his place at the school is in jeopardy, what with his bad behavior.”

 

“Let me guess— arson, larceny, possibly even assault. He’s probably organized hunger strikes and made teachers cry. He talks back, plays pranks, picks fights. He’s probably done more, but he wiggles out of the worst punishments because he’s cute and talks with a lisp.”

 

“I— everything but the arson. They couldn’t prove it was him.” She pauses. “How did you know about the lisp?”

 

“I’ve seen Jim’s baby holos.” Leonard snorts. “Kirks are pretty much identical, once you know how to spot ‘em— Jim’s nephews and niece looked exactly like their father, who looked exactly like Jim, who looks exactly like George. Unfortunately for you, Sam was not your baby daddy. His line apparently got lucky and didn’t get Winona’s asshole gene.”

 

Carol doesn’t know what to do with that information, so she elects to ignore it.

 

“How do I tell him?”

 

Leonard opens his mouth to answer, then goes very, very still.

 

“I’m thinking you might not need to worry about that.”

 

“What—”

 

“Shh!” Leonard’s head snaps to stare at the wall, tilted just enough that Carol can tell he’s listening for something.

 

She doesn’t expect the speed with which he catapults over the biobed, nor does she expect the violence with which he tears off the wall panel and shoves his arm inside, causing the wall to scream.

 

“Jesus Christ, Bones!”

 

“How many times,” Leonard starts, pulling out an ear, then a blond head, then a golden uniform. “How many times have I told you to stay away from the Medbay walls?”

 

“A lot,” Jim admits. “But I needed to! It was the quickest way to bypass Spock’s sentinels—”

 

“I don’t give a diddly-damn,” Leonard says. “How much of that did you hear?”

 

“I—”

 

Bones twists his ear. Hard.

 

“Shit, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” Jim wrenches himself free, red-faced and watery-eyed. He turns to Carol.

 

“I heard all of it. Sorry. David? He’s my kid? That explains a bunch of things.”

 

Carol can’t feel her fingers. Can’t breathe. She stares, wide-eyed and blank and—

 

“Bones? Something’s wrong—”

 

She doesn’t hear anything else, mostly because she’s fainted.

  


*.*

  


When she wakes up, she’s on a biobed, and Jim’s there.

 

“Hey, look who’s up,” he says, grinning when she tries to sit up. “Listen, I’m really sorry about scaring you. I know you probably wanted to be able to tell me properly rather than—”

 

Carol slaps him. Hard.

 

“... I deserved that.”

 

“You did.”

 

Jim cracks his jaw carefully.

 

“Okay.” He takes a deep breath. “Okay. So. I have a kid.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You are the mother of my kid. Who is David, the best kid on the planet.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“We had sex?”

 

She knew he didn’t remember.

 

“You were visiting campus because Pike was planetside for a conference.” That’s what he told her, anyway. She’s inclined to believe it.

 

Jim pauses, then winces.

 

“That was a bad time for me,” he admits. “I can’t imagine I was any good.”

 

“Better than I expected,” she says, because why the hell not. “We were both plastered.”

 

“I imagine so. I’m usually pretty smart about this kind of stuff.”

 

“I would hope so.”

 

“It was a bad time.”

 

“You’ve said.”

 

“Me and Spock weren’t talking.”

 

“... Ah.” So she is in deep shit with Spock. Well, at least Jim’s taking it well. “How angry is he?”

 

“Not at all. We’ve talked about this possibility. He’s a little annoyed you didn’t speak up sooner, but hey, you were in an interesting position.” Jim leans back. “So, our kid. Your kid. David. He’s having trouble? Why am I asking? I knew that.”

 

Carol swallows.

 

“I think… I think even if I was there, I couldn’t handle him,” she says. “He’s too smart.”

 

“Even for you?”

 

She huffs a laugh. Good old Jim. Genius that he is, he still thinks he’s an everyman.

 

“Even for me. And, well, listening to you talk— listening to everyone talk— about what you were like when you were young… it sounds an awful lot like he’s like you.”

 

“Hyperactive, you mean.”

 

“Bored’s a better word.” Carol sighs. “Problem is, if he gets himself expelled from Archer’s, he’s getting moved to Kilshev’s, in the Ukraine. San Francisco’s the only home he’s ever known, and without any family to leave him with…”

 

“He loses the last strand of stability in his life, yeah.” Jim nods sharply. “I get that.”

 

“So… what do I do?”

 

“Well,” Jim starts, clicking his tongue. “My mother’s solution to an unruly child was to find him playmates, and barring that, a long stay on a death planet. I don’t recommend the second one. Even if she didn’t do it on purpose, that was pretty harsh.

 

“The other option is a friend. I had Spock, then Gaila. I found Bones on my own, but he helped, too. Friends are good. Friends give Kirks something to prioritize.”

 

“I’m not exactly there, Jim. How do I find him a friend from the edge of the Neutral Zone?”

 

Jim smiles.

 

“You’re in luck, Carol. I happen to know somebody in the vicinity of Archer’s, and they’ve been looking for a new project.”

  


*.*

  


“David, there’s someone for you.”

 

David goes stiff. Who could be here for him? His mother’s off-planet.

 

“Hello, David Marcus. I am T’Pring. Your mother sent me to speak with you.”

 

A Vulcan woman is standing in the doorway, along with his PE teacher. At least, he’s pretty sure she’s Vulcan. She’s not dressed like the ones he sees around the Starfleet campus, or the ones in boring school holos. No, this one’s dressed like a Human, in a long green dress and a black coat. Her face, though, is the picture of Vulcan stoicism, even framed by windswept hair.

 

“My Mom doesn’t know any Vulcans,” he says, crossing his arms. “How do I know she sent you?”

 

“Incorrect. She knows First Officer Spock.” The Vulcan woman dips her head. “However, she informed me that if you were skeptical, to tell you that you should ‘never play leapfrog with a unicorn’.”

 

The words sound odd coming out a Vulcan’s mouth, odd enough to make David laugh.

 

“That’s weird. Never say that again.”

 

“As you like.” T’Pring holds out a thin, black-gloved hand. “Come with me. I have been instructed to take you on an outing.”

 

“To do what?” David’s already scrambling for his coat. Anything to get leave this damned place.

 

“Something educational.”

 

“Well, yeah, but what?” David toes on his shoes and, after a moment’s hesitation, ignores her hand. He’s not five. “Not the Starfleet campus again, that’s boring.”

 

“No, not the campus. There is nothing worth learning there that I could not teach you myself, if you were inclined to learn.” T’Pring inclines her head so she can meet his eyes. “I thought we might visit the Vulcan Embassy.”

 

David’s mouth falls open. He can’t think of anything to say, not until they’re on the street and heading in the direction of the embassy.

 

“The embassy might not let me in,” David says when he finds his tongue again. “They caught me trying to get into a gala last New Year’s.”

 

“I am aware,” T’Pring says. “I have secured an invitation from Ambassador Sarek for you, in order for you to meet your cousin.”

 

“Cousin?”

 

“Yes.” T’Pring pauses. “You are aware that your father is James Kirk, correct?”

 

David makes a face.

 

“Yeah.” He still can’t believe he didn’t catch on. All those Punnett Squares for nothing, because he hadn’t imagined his Mom to be cool enough to catch the eye of James Tiberius Kirk.

 

He won’t be making _that_ mistake again.

 

“He is a complicated individual,” she says. “And surprisingly dim when it suits him. Had he been aware of your existence before now, you would have known him— at least, you would have known him as your father, rather than a pen pal.”

 

David’s not so sure of that, but it doesn’t really matter because oh, wow, there’s a Vulcan holding open the door for them and they’re inside and nobody’s come to kick David out yet.

 

Sweet.

 

Ambassador Sarek is waiting for them in the gardens, seated at a small table. Beside him is a Human boy, with sunny blond hair neatly braided back out of his eyes and blue eyes that look just like David’s. David assumes this is his cousin.

 

“Ambassador.” T’Pring holds up her hand in a salute, and David hurries to do the same.

 

“T’Pring,” Sarek greets. “David.”

 

“Nice to meet you, sir,” David gets out, tearing his eyes away from the other boy to meet Sarek’s.

 

“Hello, David,” the blond boy says. His Standard is weird, like he’s not used to using it. “I am Peter Kirk. Our fathers are brothers.”

 

“... Oh.” Smooth, David. “I didn’t know I had any cousins.”

 

“Nor did I.” Peter tilts his head to one side. “Would you like some tea?”

 

And so David finds himself at the Vulcan Embassy, taking tea with an Ambassador and his new cousin and some lady that somehow knows his Mom? It’s all very odd, a little overwhelming, particularly when the subject turns to his schooling.

 

“Dr. Marcus informed me that David is having some behavioral issues at school,” T’Pring says. “Though his academic record is extraordinary.”

 

“You can thank Uncle Jim for that,” Peter pipes up. “Your mind works too quickly for even advanced classes. Nothing can hold your interest.”

 

“Um— I guess?” Come on, David, you can do better than that. “I have so much _time,_ you know? And I’m not allowed to do other people’s homework anymore. The teachers say that it’s _cheating.”_

 

“It is,” Peter says blandly. “But I suppose that is not the point. The point is, you are bored.”

 

“A common ailment of Kirks,” T’Pring remarks.

 

“It is.” Peter scratches absently at his jaw. “As I was growing up, Uncle Sarek sent me projects to complete. Do you have any particular subject that holds your interest, David?”

 

There’s something odd about being talked to like he’s the younger person in the conversation, even though it’s clear he’s got a few years on this pipsqueak of a Kirk-Vulcan.

 

“Well, I want to go into Starfleet.” David shifts. “I wanted to be like Grandpa, but then he turned out to be a traitor, so…” he trails off, shrugging. “I don’t know. Probably sciences, like Mom.”

 

T’Pring says something in Vulcan, something David doesn’t understand. Sarek answers, and Peter nods, standing.

 

“Come on, David,” he says. “I am working on a new strain of plomeek. Perhaps you might like to look at my research.”

 

Translation: Grownups wanna talk.

 

David’s used to that, though, so whatever. Setting down his teacup, he pushes himself to his feet and moves to follow his cousin.

 

“Hey, why are you wearing Vulcan clothes?” he asks once the patio door shuts behind them.

 

Peter’s lip quirks.

 

“Uncle Sarek has been my guardian for the last year or so,” he says. “My father was killed during a parasitic infestation of the planet Deneva. Uncle Jim was the one who brought me to Vulcan.”

 

“He didn’t try to…” David shakes his head. “Never mind.”

 

“No, please. Ask. I don’t mind.”

 

“He… my father didn’t try to take care of you? I mean… how did you end up with the Ambassador?”

 

Peter shrugs. It’s an oddly un-Vulcan gesture, but then, the kid’s Human, even if he wears that shiny, Teachings-of-Surak veneer almost as well as any Vulcan.

 

“Uncle Sarek is Uncle Jim’s father-in-law and my godfather,” he says. “My Mom asked him to take on the responsibility when I was born. As good of a man as Uncle Jim is, he is the product of Grandma Winnie’s parenting, her genetics, and her decision to give him a childhood in space. He is unstable at best, a danger to himself and others at worst. The man’s lucky, I’ll give him that, but I doubt that luck covers an interloper like me.

 

“Uncle Jim has his family. Blood is important to him, yes, but I believe he thinks we Kirks do better when we are allowed to choose our own paths.” Peter stops in front of the door and pauses. “Oh. Hello, Saavik.”

 

David shifts to get a look at the stranger bending over a row of potted sprouts. It’s a Vulcan girl— but, no, she doesn’t look like a Vulcan. Not exactly. She’s… wow, she’s pretty.

 

“Saavik, this is my cousin, David.” Peter steps aside to allow David to pass. “David, this is Saavik. She is traveling with Uncle Sarek until she can be placed with a Vulcan family.”

 

“Hi.”

 

“Hello.” Saavik steps away from the plants, brushing her dirt-dusted fingers off on a long, brown apron. There’s an awkward pause, then she sticks out a hand. “It is nice to meet you.”

 

“Uh… I thought Vulcans didn’t shake hands.”

 

“Vulcans do not,” Peter agrees. “But Saavik is half-Romulan. Her telepathic ability is not as developed as a full-blooded Vulcan’s, and as such, she is able to take part in Human courtesies.”

 

“Oh, well, okay.” David takes her hand, which is still hanging awkwardly in the air. “Nice to meet you… too.”

 

Her hand is soft and just a touch colder than his, dusty with dirt. But David doesn’t notice that, because… because…

 

Wow. He doesn’t know how he knows, but she seems really nervous. She shouldn’t be. She’s doing the Human thing just fine. Shaking hands is weird, among non-Terrans, but she hasn’t made it awkward at all. In fact, David’s probably the one making it weird, he’s the Terran with the weird, disorganized mind, and—

 

“— vid? Saavik? What is going on?”

 

David lets go, suddenly embarrassed. “What?”

 

“His mind was…” Saavik pauses, flushing the lightest shade of green. “My apologies, David. It seems I was able to brush against your mind.”

 

“I— really?” Why’s she embarrassed? That’s great! She’s been awkward about the fact that her telepathic abilities weren’t as good as a normal Vulcan’s for as long as she’s been aware of them. Isn’t the fact that she managed to touch his mind a good thing, even if it was by accident?

 

Wait.

 

“How do I know that?” he asks her. “Did you leave something behind?”

 

“Peter,” Saavik says, eyes a little too wide to be a perfect Vulcan mask. “I think you ought to get Ambassador Sarek.”

 

“Why? What happened?”

 

“Please, Peter.”

 

Peter looks like he wants to ask, but keeps his mouth shut and obeys, disappearing down the hall with all the rush that can be afforded to a boy raised with Vulcan customs.

 

Surprise and… fear? Something like fear washes up against David’s psyche. His hands start to shake.

 

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks, looking at Saavik.

 

“I think…” Saavik looks away. “I apologize. I am uncertain as to… I believe _I_ might have done something.”

 

“Done what?”

  


*.*

  


“Bonded? Are you serious?”

 

Jim is pacing. He only found out he had a kid like, ten days ago. Ten days of meddling, and his kid’s already bonded. He shouldn’t be a parent. Clearly. His kid’s a mess. His kid’s a behavioral nightmare. His kid’s—

 

“He’s _fifteen.”_

 

“We were younger,” Spock says serenely, and— well, yeah. Jim doesn’t have an argument for that.

 

“Why aren’t you freaking out?” He asks Carol.

 

Carol shrugs. “I am, but… it worked out for you, minus a few shaky years. And who knows? This Saavik girl is aware of it, as is David. There’s little room for miscommunication, on that front.”

 

“Too true, darlin’.” Bones clinks his glass against the one in her hand. “That was a bad time. I was going to kill Spock, I knew I was. Sometimes I think I still might.”

 

“Thank you, Doctor. Your input was quite necessary.”

 

“I knew you cared, Spock.”

 

“Sarek doesn’t seem worried,” Carol continues, ignoring them. “He says it actually clears a few things up for Saavik. She was having trouble finding a family that would accept her Romulan parentage. Now, because of the bond, she can go to the Archer School with David. With any luck, that should be enough to keep them out of trouble— though it does mean I’m technically going to be acting as her guardian…” Carol trails off thoughtfully, sipping her whisky. “Well, I suppose I would have wanted a daughter eventually.”

 

Jim stares, open-mouthed, before shaking himself and straightening.

 

“I have to go call Mommy,” he says. “And Number One. And Pike. Maybe Syruk, too— the whole engineering crew, actually.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I need to apologize.” Jim sighs. “Karma’s a bitch.”


	3. Jo Goes To Starfleet (Part One)

If someone had asked Joanna Margaret McCoy what she wanted to be when she grew up when she was five, she would have said she wanted to be a doctor, like her Daddy. This answer would have remained the same until about the age of twelve, when her Daddy went to space. Then, she wanted to be a diplomat, sent ahead of flagships like the Enterprise to smooth everything over with new planets before Uncle Jim got there and started a fight. Uncle Jim causes trouble, and even if her Daddy glosses over the gory parts of it, she knows he ends up in the middle of the trouble more times than she’d like. That’s a scary thought— her Daddy’s a doctor, not a… whatever the hell the title is for people who clean up Uncle Jim’s messes.

 

She tells Uncle Jim that she’s going to go to space a little after her thirteenth birthday, after a speaker comes in for Career Day at school. She tells him because she can’t tell her Mom and Dad— her Mom would throw a fit that she’s going to be just like her Dad, and her Dad will throw a fit because is  _ space is disease and danger wrapped up in darkness and silence, _ or whatever. So she tells Uncle Jim.

 

Naturally, he’s ecstatic.

 

“You should go into Starfleet,” he says. “Plenty of opportunities to go into space that way— plus, you can join my crew and annoy your Dad like,  _ all the time. _ Wouldn’t it be great?”

 

Jo rolls her eyes, because she’s thirteen and that’s what teenagers do, and because of course Uncle Jim would think that’s the best part of the deal.

 

“Maybe,” she says. “I don’t know yet. I wanna… explore my options, I think, when it comes to going into space.”

 

She’s read up on the way Starfleet works. The  _ Enterprise  _ is always the first on the scene when it comes to most first contact. The only way she’d be able to get ahead is to go herself, and she’s not sure how much she likes that.

 

“No, totally, I get it. Here, how about this? I’ll send you some literature— nothing’s better for building a dream for yourself like some good old-fashioned ship stories!”

 

Over the next six hours, her PADD is bombarded with holos, data files, and Lord knows what else. All of it is fiction—  _ Moby Dick _ and  _ Old Man and the Sea _ and  _ Guardians of the Galaxy— _ which, okay, not very helpful. But it’s a fun way to spend her Sunday afternoons. Uncle Jim has great taste in fiction, and Jo’s normal schoolwork is boring, a lot of the time.

 

Malcolm Reynolds is the best captain in the ‘verse. Sorry, Uncle Jim, but it’s true. He’s handsome, he’s funny, he’s laid back but can kick ass when he needs to…

 

If Jo were to join Starfleet and go Command track, that’s who she’d want to be. Unfortunately for Uncle Jim, she’s going to go medical, like Daddy— she wants to save lives, not dictate them. Being in charge seems like it’s a lot less rewarding, and people always get pissed at you for telling them what to do.

 

Still, that doesn’t mean she can’t take a few tips from Captain Reynolds. Not fashion tips, obviously— those pants are a little dated, even in a vaguely steampunk dystopian sci-fi show. Jo doesn’t want to point fingers or anything, but Mal wearing breeches— proper, fall-having breeches— doesn’t really make sense. That cut is meant for modesty, and is insanely impractical, particularly if you happen to be a man with the sort of luck Mal has— but, Jo’s getting off-topic.

 

Mal can teach her things her parents can’t. Social stuff. Her Dad’s a funny guy, but he’s grumpy, and that doesn’t endear him to a lot of people. She wants to be friendly, to have friends— as far as she can tell, her Dad only has like, three. Maybe.

 

Her Mom, on the other hand, is really tightly wound. Kind of like Simon, if Simon was going in and out of in-patient all the time. That doesn’t seem like a good way to be, so Jo’s gonna work extra hard to not be like that. Mal always tries to keep calm, to seem unbothered. Well, Jo can do that. It’s not like she has an Inara or a Saffron or reavers to worry about.

 

Anyway, yeah, Mal is the best captain, and Jo thinks she’d like to be like him. Just a little bit.

  
  


*.*

  
  


She ends up joining Starfleet. It’s the best option, with the steadiest pay, and a Nursing Program that’ll have her in the black in five years, tops— probably less, if she’s honest. She’s been studying her Dad’s old medical textbooks since Granny McCoy gave them to her for her fifteenth birthday. She knows her shit. She can do it in four years, easy, which would put her in space just shy of her twenty-second birthday.

 

Living on Starfleet campus is weird. T’Pring offered to give her a place to stay while she was at school, but as much as she likes Uhura’s super hot Vulcan girlfriend, Jo thinks it’s time to stop living with people who report back to her parents. So, she goes to the dorms, rooming with an overenthusiastic Andorian chick whose name she can’t pronounce at first but makes the  _ best _ bathtub gin Jo has ever tasted. She does shit with cinnamon that even Uncle Scotty wouldn’t think of, seriously.

 

Thanks to all of that time putzing around with her Dad’s old textbooks, Jo finds herself with a lot of free time that isn’t dedicated to dehydrating or hunching over a datafile of  _ Sartok’s Basic Anatomy _ in the library. So, she does other stuff. The Archer School always needs volunteers in the daycare, for instance, especially since the Pike twins have started up. Tubey and Connor are really bright kids, but Tubey already made three teachers cry by force of will alone, and Connor’s just… Connor.

 

The twins haven’t caused her any problems, so far, but Jo thinks that might be due to the fact that Chris calls her family more than anything else. Jo doesn’t really know the rules that Number One has set out for her children, but she’s pretty sure that there’s a clause in there about not making people who are family’s lives a living hell. She appreciates that clause, she really does.

 

Her freshman year is a memorable one thanks to a ship crashing into downtown San Francisco. She doesn’t get all the details, but Uncle Jim died and Daddy had to make him better and Uncle Spock almost killed a white dude named  _ Khan,  _ what the fuck?

 

She’s at the Archer School when it happens. Luckily, the school isn’t hit but it’s clear none of them are going anywhere anytime soon. She does her best to pretend everything’s okay, to pretend everything’s normal and there isn’t the very real chance that they might all die, and after a while, it seems to work— it’s just that the first four hours are full of crying and screaming and ‘I want my mom’.

 

Tubey and Connor, at least, aren’t an issue. It isn’t so surprising that Number One is there almost the moment that it seems like the city isn’t crashing down around her ears. Or maybe it is. Jo’s so exhausted, so tired of being worried already, that the ghost of Grandpa David could have come to pick those kids up and she wouldn’t bat an eye.

 

Number One gives her a brief nod when Jo reflexively begins to collect the twins’ things, packing them into Starfleet-themed backpacks and handing them to the woman.

 

“We’ll be on lockdown for a while,” Jo informs her. “Dunno how long.”

 

“Very well. I will inform your father,” Number One says. “Do try and call him.”

 

“I will.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


They’re on lockdown for three days. Those three days she spent huddled on a twin bed trying to keep fifth graders and younger calm? It was the hardest thing she thinks she’ll ever do. They kept crying, and having nightmares, and asking for their parents… and Jo couldn’t help them. All she could do is hug them extra tight and tell them everything’s okay, even if she knows it probably isn’t.

 

“Your father is worried about you,” Number One informs her when it’s finally alright for people (who aren’t Number One) to start collecting their children. It seems like she might be there for a while to make it look like Starfleet has everything under control. “He couldn’t contact you and thought the worst.”

 

“I’ve been here.” Jo gestures vaguely at the school. “Lockdown, you know. Until they could clean up enough to let everyone out.”

 

Number One probably does know, Jo thinks belatedly, but she doesn’t bother to correct herself.

 

“I have to stay,” she says. “There’s still kids that need watching.” Kids that don’t know if their parents are going to pick them up, but Jo doesn’t say that.

 

Number One gives her a long, assessing look, then nods.

 

“I will tell your father you are safe,” she says. “T’Pring will come to collect you at the end of the day. Do not attempt to argue— you look like shit.”

 

Jo doesn’t appreciate that observation at all, but she doesn’t argue, just nods tiredly and smiles at a pair of younger boys as they rush their parents, backpacks jumping with the force of each step.

 

“I’ll see you guys soon, okay?” she says waving after them.

 

“Bye-bye, Jo.”

 

“Bye!”

 

Number One nods her own goodbye and disappears back into the building. Jo goes back inside a few minutes later, once she remembers she ought to. She straightens her spine, takes a deep breath, and gets the kids ready for breakfast.

 

This is what she signed up for.

  
  


*.*

  
  


T’Pring comes, as promised, and takes her to Spock’s house, the one she’s been living in since Vulcan was destroyed. Jo is fried; she’s practically blind with it, and the only way she makes it to a bed is thanks to T’Pring’s steady hand on her shoulder.

 

Sleep is a beautiful, beautiful thing, and she will never neglect it again.

 

Waking up in her Dad’s old bed from the Academy is weird, though, when she does finally come around. It smells like him, and booze, and sort of like dust. She doesn’t know what wakes her, because the blackout curtains on the windows stop the sun from shining in her face and there’s no discernible noises coming from downstairs. A minute later, it hits her— she has to pee, and she has to go  _ now. _

 

T’Pring is downstairs when Jo finally makes it down the steps, seated at the kitchen table with a set of scales and a pile of dried herbs.

 

“It is three o’clock in the afternoon,” the Vulcan informs her when she offers a greeting. “You have slept twenty-one-point-three hours.”

 

“Seriously?”

 

“Seriously.” T’Pring pauses. “There is coffee in the pot, if you like. Mugs are in the cupboard above the sink.”

 

Coffee? Fantastic. Jo’s already halfway there.

 

“Your father takes it black, as well,” T’Pring notes when Jo sits down. “Curious.”

 

“Couldn’t be bothered with milk and sugar,” Jo explains.

 

“That was his reasoning, as well.” Carefully, T’Pring plucks nuggets of herb from the pile, placing it on the scale. It takes a minute for Jo to recognize what it is.

 

“Why are you— why pot?” She’s groggy, sue her.

 

“Hikaru left behind a healthy crop from when he was working on his thesis in the basement,” T’Pring explains. “It is an acceptable source of income due to my proximity to the academy.”

 

“Oh. Wait.” Jo blinks. “You sell weed to cadets?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“That’s… I can’t explain how happy that makes me.” A Vulcan is selling weed. A  _ Vulcan _ is  _ selling weed. _ This is the greatest discovery Jo will ever make. Screw medical research.

 

“Cannabis is an interesting product,” T’Pring says. “It does not affect my Vulcan physiology the same way it affects a Human’s. Humans often say it relaxes them, which I can understand due to my own personal research, but when I or another Vulcan smoke, it is more of a… rush. The way coffee might affect your species, or nicotine.”

 

That is information Jo never thought she’d know.

 

“I appreciate the wide array of uses marijuana has,” the Vulcan adds thoughtfully. “Though I feel it is superfluous to a properly trained Vulcan. Humans, however, have a greater need for relaxation. The stress you have lived through is great. Would you like to have some for personal use?”

 

T’Pring is offering to give her weed. Her father can never know.

 

“I don’t know how to roll.”

 

“That is no matter. I am quite proficient.”

 

And just like that, T’Pring pulls out a rolling paper and rolls her a joint, dainty fingers working the paper smooth and even. She tucks the roll in her mouth and lights the end, puffing lightly until the cherry catches before passing it across the table.

 

“Where’s my Dad?” she asks, breathing in deeply.

 

“He is at the hospital,” T’Pring says, turning back to her scales. “Many suffered greatly in the attack.”

 

“Is he okay?”

 

“He is uninjured.”

 

“And Uncle Spock and Uncle Jim?”

 

T’Pring pauses.

 

“Spock is well, as is the rest of the crew,” she says. “Jim is in critical condition, which is why your father is not here to grumble about your inability to contact him during your time at Archer School. If you like, we may visit him during his break, later on.”

 

“I… yeah, I’d like that.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


Her father hugs her so tightly she thinks he may have bruised a few ribs, but Jo doesn’t care. He’s okay, he’s safe. Everyone’s alive, even Uncle Jim, and with Daddy taking care of him, he’ll be fine. He’s always fine.

 

“Never do that to me again,” he orders when he lets her go. His eyes are wide and bloodshot and crazy— ah, good ol’ Dad. “You scared the living shit out of me, kid!”

 

“Comm lines were down, I’m sorry, Daddy—”

 

“Bad enough I have to worry about these idiots—” he jerks his thumb in the direction Jo assumes the rest of the crew is. “— but I can’t handle it from you. You’re the smart one, you know that?”

 

“I know, Daddy, I won’t.”

 

“Good.”  His hands are heavy on her shoulders, gaze intent on her face, which— oops. “Is that a goddamn piercing?”

 

“I meant to send you photos—”

 

And suddenly, everything’s normal again. Her Dad’s grumbling about rebellious daughters and bad influences and Jo can takes the time to bask in his grumpy, worried warmth.

 

Everything will be fine. It’s always fine.

  
  


*.*

  
  


“I thought you were dead, oh my God!”

 

Jo’s arms are full of Andorian roommate and she can’t breathe. All she wanted was a few changes of underwear.

 

“Hey, Ch’th’ukla—” she tried. “Shit, I’m sorry, I should’ve called or something. I got stuck at the Archer School. Are you packing?”

 

The girl lets go and steps back, letting Jo get a full view of the room.

 

“I’ve decided to drop out,” she explains, rubbing a hand through her white hair. “I can’t— the stress was already so much, and then…” she trails off. “I can’t do it. Not after this.”

 

“Hey, I get it,” Jo offers, patting her arm awkwardly. “Shit got really crazy for awhile.”

 

“Starfleet is an intergalactic target. I don’t think I can handle that kind of pressure.” Ch’th’ukla shrugs, looking away.

 

“What are you going to do now?”

 

“I don’t know. I think I’ll stay on Earth, though— there’s a lot of options for a girl like me.” She pauses. “Can we still hang out, though, even after I’m gone?”

 

“Yeah, of course!”

 

The girl’s antennae tremble with happiness.

 

Yeah. Freshman year was interesting.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Sulu’s husband, Mr. Sulu, becomes a regular fixture in Jo’s life by the time she starts her sophomore year. Demora is born just three months after the Khan incident, an adorable, squishy ball of black-haired pudge.

 

The whole crew’s there for her birth, grounded until the  _ Enterprise _ can undergo full repairs. Jim and Chris are being wheeled around in matching wheelchairs, which Jim takes great pleasure in and Chris pointedly ignores. Ambassador Sarek’s there— for good luck, apparently, though Jo doesn’t know why— and Daddy handles the actual birth. It’s a family event, full of laughter and good cheer, reminding them all that the world isn’t actually so goddamn terrifying as it seems, sometimes.

 

(Off-topic? Daddy definitely has a girlfriend. She’s blond and a nurse and curses like a sailor, but her voice is so sweet and soft that sometimes Jo misses it.)

 

Jo offers to babysit when she can, and Mr. Sulu takes her up on it. She loves Demora, loves her soft brown eyes and her fat, grasping hands. Hanging out with the Sulus becomes the new thing to do— she ends up running into every member of the crew at some point or another during her daily visits.

 

Yeah, she visits every day. Normally, the time she spends at the Sulus would be at the Archer School, but she can’t handle that, not yet. It’s… the memories aren’t good, and Jo would like to avoid them, if possible.

 

It sort of makes sense Number One’s the one to call her out on it.

 

“Number Two and Number Three miss you,” she remarks, appearing next Jo from the shadows when she’s walking home one day. “They want to know why you haven’t gone to school.”

 

“Jesus fuck—! Number One, you scared the shit outta me!”

 

“I did not. I would smell it if you had truly soiled yourself.”

 

Jo wrinkles her nose but doesn’t reply. Number One’s weirdness is something she’s had to get used to.

 

“Why haven’t you volunteered at Archer School, Joanna?”

 

Jo swallows.

 

“I don’t—” she pauses. “It’s stupid.”

 

“If it were a trivial matter, you would not let it become an obstacle.” Number One tilts her head. “Are you suffering from some sort of trauma?”

 

Well, maybe. But Jo’s not that kind of person.

 

“Just need some time,” she says. “You know.”

 

“I do not. I do, however, know someone who does.” Number One stops, forcing Jo to stop with her. “You should talk to Jim. He understands what it means to watch children suffer. He will listen without comment.”

 

Jo doesn’t know what to say to that, so she doesn’t say anything. She just stands, arms crossed and hood pulled up.

 

Number One has always given off the feeling that she could see right through a person. Right now is no different.

 

“Go talk to Jim,” she repeats. “He will get you back on track. And come visit sometime. I was not lying when I said my children miss you.”

 

And just like that, she walks off.


	4. Jo Goes to Starfleet (Part 2)

Uncle Jim is easy to talk to, and he can tell from the moment Jo walks into his bedroom that that’s what she wants to do. So, he does the practical thing, shooing Spock out of the room and putting on a holo— Space Jam, this time around.

 

“What’s eatin’ ya, princess?” he asks after thirty minutes of absolute silence.

 

“I… Number One said I should talk to you. About… about the attack.”

 

“If you want to, you can.” Uncle Jim pops a Skittle into his mouth. “You don’t have to.”

 

Jo swallows.

 

“I’m having nightmares,” she says. “Of all the kids crying. I keep dreaming all their parents were dead, that  _ Dad _ was dead… if it keeps up, my GPA’s gonna tank.”

 

Jim sighs.

 

“That’s rough, buddy,” he says, squeezing her into his side. “When shit hits the fan like it just did, kids are… hard.”

 

“There was this one kid, David? His grandfather died in the attack. I saw it on the news. A bunch of other kids, too. I don’t wanna deal with that. I can’t. I just wanna be happy my Dad’s alive. And my uncles, obviously.”

 

“Gee, thanks.” Jim’s smile dims. “Listen, princess, what you did was amazing. Number One says you kept your kids calm, you made them feel better. That’s hard to do, with those kinds of worries hanging over your head. But you can’t let stuff like that get to you. Not if you’re going in for medical. That’s your whole job.”

 

“What am I supposed to do? I can’t shut my brain off.”

 

“You shouldn’t do that— shutting it off can lead to dying, according to your Dad.” Jim sighs. “Find… find something to do. A hobby. A project. Something you have to put all your focus into so you don’t fail. That’s what works for Kirks.”

 

“Think it’ll work for McCoys?”

 

“I think it could, if one were to give it a chance.” He smiles. “If you weren’t your father’s daughter, I’d consider taking up something just a little dangerous. It adds a frisson of fun, in my opinion.”

 

Jo laughs.

 

“I’ll think about it,” she says. “Thanks, Uncle Jim.”

 

“Hey, I live to serve.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


She starts visiting the Pikes, every Sunday at noon on the dot. She can’t manage to go to Archer School yet, so instead, she goes to the kids she needs to see herself.

 

Tubey and Connor are ecstatic. She can tell by the way Connor’s face twitches just so.

 

Number One seems pleased by her presence, too, particularly when they start swapping recipes. For all that the woman exudes killing intent, she’s never met a more natural mother in the world— she takes Jo in without even realizing she’s done it.

 

Her schedule works out in such a way that, even split between school, the Sulus, and the Pikes, she still has three nights of absolutely nothing, so, she calls Ch’th’ukla.

 

“Drinks?”

 

“Definitely. You need to try this new brew of mine— the guys say it’s my best creation  _ yet.” _

 

Ch’th’ukla, apparently, has gotten herself a job brewing all sorts of weird stuff for a dive bar on the other side of town. ‘The guys’ are her regulars— mostly unsavoury types, if one were to look at them from a legal perspective. They’re nice enough to Jo, though, and even try not to rob her blind when she jumps into a game of poker sometime after her third visit.

 

Hanging at Roscoe’s becomes a regular part of Jo’s life pretty quickly. There’s nothing Starfleet in this bar, nothing to remind her of school or her Dad’s likely death-defying stunts in space or her own near-miss six months ago— and it’s been six months since the Khan Incident. Weird, isn’t it? How quickly time flies.

 

Eventually, she can actually play a decent hand, and then she can play a better one. Ch’th’ukla teaches her some Andorian, and Rodrigo, the big burly guy with the metal hand? He teaches her about spaceships, how to keep ‘em running without drawing the attention of the law. He did sixteen years for smuggling, so she’s not sure how useful the information is, but it’s good to know, anyway.

 

Her sophomore year goes by quickly with this schedule, seeping into her junior year with her barely noticing. It’s right around Christmas that she meets Harry Mudd the first time, and it’s because she had to help throw him out of the bar.

 

“That guy owes us a thousand credits, easy,” Ch’th’ukla says once the door’s been slammed on his ass. “He always dips before he can pay his tab. Unless he’s here to pay, kick his head in.”

 

Jo’s… not going to do that, but she does feel a little pissed off. Roscoe’s is a good place, with good people. Yeah, they’re not the most law-abiding citizens, but shit like that can make a little bar go under.

 

Harry Mudd is a familiar name to her. The guy’s had two different run-ins with the _ Enterprise,  _ and was outsmarted both times. Now, she’s not as smart as her uncles, granted, but she thinks she could handle a guy like that.

 

“Next time he comes in, have him play cards with me,” she says. “I wanna see if I can win the money off of ‘im.”

 

“Not worth it,” Ch’th’ukla says. “Trust me, Joey, he’s scum.”

 

“I don’t know,” Rodrigo says thoughtfully. “Jo’s a damn cardshark, nowadays, and you know that bastard— he’d take one look at Jo’s pretty face and think she’s dumber than a seh’lat turd.”

 

“Exactly!” Jo grins brightly. “Let him in, next time, and have him play cards with me. I’ll get you every penny I can pull out of the fucker.”

 

“What, you gonna play ‘Captain Mal’ or something?” Frankie asks from over his beer, sharp teeth shining with foam.

 

Jo huffs. She never should have let them watch _ Firefly,  _ because the teasing? Cruel and unusual.

 

“That’s exactly what I’m gonna do,” she says, leaning back against the bar. “And when I’m done, you guys can tell him exactly what’ll happen if he comes ‘round here again. Fair?”

 

“Fair!”

  
  


*.*

  
  


The second time she meets Harry Mudd is right before the beginning of senior year. She walks away with six thousand credits and the rights to his ship. He walks away with a lifetime ban once she pays his tab.

 

“What the hell are you gonna do with a smugglin’ ship?” Rodrigo asks when he sits back down, wiping blood off his knuckles. “You’re a Starfleet brat.”

 

Jo shrugs.

 

“Sell it, probably.” she says. “A girl can always do with a little extra cash.”

 

“You oughta hold onto it,” Frankie says. “Never know when you might need a handy little getaway vehicle.”

 

She rolls her eyes.

 

“I’m a good girl, Frankie,” she says. “We don’t need getaway cars.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


She doesn’t sell the ship. She doesn’t know why, but she doesn’t. Instead, she gives it a new coat of paint and renames it the  _ Shu Fu, _ because she is a giant nerd with a spaceship, now.

 

She’s almost finished her certification for nursing at the end of the fall semester, which is awesome, because it means that it’s just one more semester of history and diplomacy and a few other side things and she’s done. She’s excited, she’s ecstatic, she’s…

 

None of these things.

 

Chris suggests she takes a semester off when she admits she’s less than pleased about finishing school.

 

“It happens, sometimes,” he says. “People get second thoughts, need to really consider if Starfleet is the path they want to walk.”

 

She takes his advice and doesn’t sign up for classes next semester. Instead, she moves in with T’Pring and borrows a bunch of books on warp cores (the care and feeding of). She’s got a goddamn ship, after all. She ought to know the thing works.

 

Three days of reading in the cargo hold of the Shu Fu tells her this much: Harry Mudd didn’t know shit about his ship. What he’s done to it… it’s a crime against nature, is what it is.

 

Helpless at what to do with the mess he’d left, she sends Uncle Scotty a message.

 

Jo:

Somebody I know just got their hands on a civilian class ship. The engines are trashed. Any tips?

 

Uncle Scotty:

Tear it out and build a new one.

How are you, lassie?

 

Jo:

Alright. Took a semester off to clear my head before graduation.

 

Uncle Scotty:

Good call.

Enjoy yourself while you still can, is what I say.

That mixture you sent was fantastic, by the by. Give my regards to the chef.

 

Jo:

She says she’s flattered.

If you don’t have the money/expertise to build a new engine from scratch, what do you do?

 

Uncle Scotty:

This is important to you.

Is it a boy? Or a girl?

 

Jo:

You’re being nosey, Uncle Scotty.

It’s important to me.

Any suggestions?

 

Scotty:

Send me some holos of the thing. I’ll have a look.

 

Jo:

Will do.

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Look at this mess! The engines are completely buggered!”

 

Keenser chitters in agreement, fingers zipping across the holos to get a better look.

 

“Oh! New project?” Gaila leans over Scotty’s shoulder to get a better look.

 

“No, nothin’ like that.” Scotty sighs. “Jo’s trying to help a friend out who just bought a civilian class secondhand. Just— look at it.”

 

Gaila does, leaning closer until her cheek brushes against Scotty’s. His eyes go wide and he flushes at the contact.

 

“Looks like they were trying to boost the warp capabilities,” she remarks, oblivious to his discomfort. “They fucked it up pretty bad, but I see what they were going for. Their best bet is to expand the engine room and build it up from there. Then they might be able to untangle some of this bullshit.”

 

_ “Rrrp?” _ Keenser asks, tilting his head.

 

“Well, if they just—” Gaila pulls up a fresh slide and starts shifting, tugging at holographic wires to better illustrate her point.

 

God, she’s so smart. Scotty loves smart girls.

 

“Like that, see?” Gaila taps a rhythm on Scotty’s shoulders, pleased with herself. “Then there’s no need to downgrade on speed, y’know?”

 

Scotty takes a closer look.

 

“Aye, that could work,” he admits. “Brilliant, Gaila.”

 

She laughs.

 

“Well, duh! It’s me, isn’t it?” She straightens, patting Scotty’s back as she steps away. “Send that along to Jo, if you want— oh, are you hungry? It’s near dinnertime.”

 

“We’ll meet you there,” Scotty says. “Thanks, Gaila.”

 

She smiles and disappears around the corner. As soon as she’s out of sight, Keenser turns around and smacks Scotty so hard he can feel his teeth rattle.

 

_ “If you like her, ask her out,” _ Keenser orders in that odd, rolling accent of his.  _ “Stop with this freezing up crap. You’re not a middle-schooler anymore.” _

 

“Don’t talk so loudly,” Scotty hisses, as though anyone besides him can actually understand. “You know very well that I can’t. I mean, look at her! She’s perfect! I mean, I know I’m a looker, but not on par with  _ her.” _

 

_ “I doubt she cares that you’re balding, Scotty. She kissed you, after all.” _

 

“Oi! I’m not balding, I just have naturally thin— and shut up about that, would ya? It was a spur of the moment thing, she didn’t actually _ mean  _ anything by it.”

 

_ “She thinks you’re brilliant too, so ask her out and save the rest of us the pain.” _

 

“Your an arse, Keenser.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


Uncle Scotty:

Gaila sends her regards.

[HoloFile attached: engineering.fix.it.hfile]

 

Jo grins as she taps through the files, PADD balanced on her knee as she sips her morning coffee. Smart relatives are the  _ best. _

 

Except… except, Jo’s not an Engineering student. She has no idea how to do any of this.

 

“You seem unhappy,” T’Pring remarks. “Is it something to do with that ship of yours?”

 

Jo freezes.

 

“How do you know about that?”

 

“Scotty messaged me asking if you had found a partner,” T’Pring explains. “He mentioned a ship. I came to a logical conclusion.”

 

Jo sighs and sits back, setting her PADD on the table.

 

“The engines are fucked,” she says. “And I don’t have the know how to fix them.”

 

T’Pring hums.

 

“I might be able to help with that,” she says. “May I see?”

 

“Sure.”

 

T’Pring looks over the datafiles carefully, eyebrows climbing higher and higher as she reads.

 

“It is possible,” she says finally. “Quite possible. I will aid you.”

 

“Really?”

 

“I have nothing more pressing to do,” she says. “The challenge would be stimulating.”

 

Jo is really, really grateful for all her smart relatives.

  
  


*.*

  
  


She meant to take it on a quick trip— just a test drive, really, to the moon and back. She had a few cases of Ch’th’ukla’s best shine, a few books, some food, and a toiletry bag to last her for a weekend trip. It was supposed to be quick. It was supposed to be.

 

It wasn’t.

 

T’Pring comms her a week later.

 

“You never landed on the moon.”

 

“Nope,” Jo admits easily, scratching at her chin.

 

“Where are you now?”

 

“Um… Trajectory will have me hitting a colonial settlement in three days at Warp Three.”

 

T’Pring does not sigh, it would be un-Vulcan of her, but she may as well have, if the pinch forming between her eyebrows is anything to go by.

 

“When do you plan on returning?”

 

“No clue.” Jo smiles. “You know how much fun this is? I sold like, two whole cases of shine when I stopped by Earth Outpost Two— people are gagging for booze, honestly.”

 

“So, is it incorrect to assume you will not be finishing your final year at the Academy?”

 

“I— well. Maybe later. I only have two classes to finish.”

 

“So you have decided to become a smuggler in the interim?”

 

“I’m not a smuggler!”

 

“Alcohol is illegal to have on outposts, Joanna. Synthehol only.”

 

Jo blinks.

 

“Oh. Shit.”

 

This time, T’Pring does sigh.

 

“Inform your father you are no longer on Earth,” she orders. “And please, do your best not to get caught.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, of course. I should call Mr. Sulu and Number One, too.” Jo pauses. “T’Pring?”

 

“Yes, Joanna?”

 

“Thanks for helping me with  _ Shu Fu.” _

 

“You are welcome.” T’Pring arches an eyebrow. “Do not make me regret assisting you. T’Pring out.”

 

The connection cuts off, and Jo’s alone again, so she cranks up the music and shifts into warp four.

 

All she needs is a good, long coat and a blaster, and she’s set for an adventure out in the black.

 

Uncle Jim would be so proud.


End file.
